


Having The Time of Your Life

by Witchly



Series: The Life of Jim Moriarty [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ABBA, Abuse, Addiction, Alcoholism, Anger, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Blood, Bullying, Character Death, Child Jim, Consulting Criminal, Criminal Empire, Dark Past, Depression, Difficult Life, Gay, Guns, Homosexuality, Hurt, I will make sure to add this in again in the beginning!!, I'm not a fuckin weirdo, Insanity, Jim Moriarty - Freeform, M/M, Mania, Mental Illness, Mention of Bulimia, Murder, No worries guys, OCs - Freeform, Oneshot, Original Characters - Freeform, Other, Past, Sad, Short, Since no one reads the tags!!, Slight Adult Jim at the end, Teen Jim, Undiagnosed Issues, Violence, and PLEASE correct me, anguish, criminal, criminality, dancing queen, kindly, knife, mentions of self harm, mentions of sex but not smut, misfortune, psychopathy, so I chose underage just to be safe, suicide and suicidal ideation, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witchly/pseuds/Witchly
Summary: This is a bit of Jim's past that I have dived into and wrote up myself... of course, with what I think could have happened. May or may not edit and change up in the future, but this is my muse, I see he comes from a very dark place, what everyone doesn't know. Don't be afraid to inbox me if you have any questions! It covers a bit of childhood, teenhood, and SLIGHT adulthood at the end. I usually write about Jim in his adulthood, but wanted to shine a bit of light as to how I portray Jim and where my Jim comes from, compared to how others write him. But this is all for fun! No one truly knows his backstory, so there's real no right or wrong answer, so I also do ask for respect if there are things here you disagree with. Of course, I am not from the U.K., and so things might be termed wrong or located wrong. PLEASE, IF YOU CORRECT ME, PLEASE DO IT POLITELY, I DO NOT WISH TO OFFEND IN ANY WAY. It is a dark story, so if you are not used to these sort of writings, please DO NOT read.
Relationships: Jim Moriarty & Original Male Character
Series: The Life of Jim Moriarty [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1669768
Kudos: 5





	Having The Time of Your Life

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THE TAGS PLEASE READ THE TAGS FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS, AS THERE ARE MENTIONS AND TINY BITS OF DESCRIPTIONS (NOTHING SUPER GRAPHIC I WOULD THINK) THAT COULD BE POSSIBLY TRIGGERING IF YOU ARE NOT PREPARED. PLEASE BE SURE TO TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF AND MENTAL HEALTH IF YOU WISH TO MOVE FORWARD IN READING THIS WORK. 
> 
> (TRIGGER WARNINGS: DETAILS OF ABUSE, MURDER, AND MENTIONS OF BULIMIA, ADDICTION, HOMOPHOBIA, MINOR SUICIDAL IDEATION, MENTION OF SELF HARM, MENTAL ILLNESS, BULLYING, VIOLENCE, AND ALCOHOLISM. // MUSIC BY ABBA - DANCING QUEEN)

Everyone has origins. Roots. They are all sprouted from the seed, the source of someone’s flourishing or undoing. To what it was to someone was subjective, no? They managed on their own, what was a success or downfall was truly to each their own, and no one could control, have the say of what was holy and what was wicked. And what was the difference if one had rotten roots, but flourished in their own time, and appeared beautiful to others? After all, a seed was born from another creation, and the creation before that, and the creation before that, and suddenly, generations of power, pleasure, corruption, and agony. What only mattered was how  _ you  _ took on the role of your life. 

Why be dead, when one could live?

The question is simple, but has bewildered even the most intelligent of people. Philosophy was rubbish, the world was just a game. The challenges were presented in each situation, and as a human being, it was one’s job to be clever enough to go through it -- or it was summed up to natural selection. This was survival of the fittest,  _ this  _ was the world in one’s hand. Everyone had the chance to dominate their surroundings, their feelings, their enemies, every woe that plagued the mind. Being  _ you  _ was once in a lifetime. No one could be you and no one would. Life was a celebration, make the most of it before it slipped through shaky fingers like the sands of time. 

James Moriarty had already lived enough lifetimes for a 17 year old. His selfish, abused mother killed herself after a night of his father beating them both in a drunken, drugged up fashion. It was almost a ritual, one could propose. And she left him alone with the bloody disgrace. It was after the funeral he realized what direction his life needed to take. It was almost a spark, or as if this was the situation to water his rotten roots. His bastard father had what was coming to him when he stupidly left open access to his gun. All Jim had to do was go into his father’s nightstand, steal it away, and wait for him to come home after pissing himself at a pub all day. 

And he’d never forget that night. 

Stumbling in through the door, his belt in his hand. He had been furious, eyes red from crying. Most likely over his mother passing within the last year. It was only months previous to that night. Jim wanted to torture him, rip his eyes out, make him suffer after all those years. But his fingers were like butter. He never shot a gun before, and impulse took him over. It was insidiously natural, almost as if that revolver was made for his fingers. He wished he pulled the trigger that night. But it was being held in his father’s hand, now as the crimson life flowed from his head and filthy mouth. He was too drunk to stand and focus, so with small, boyish hands, it was easy to position the gun in his hand, shove it into his mouth like it was another bottle of Irish Whiskey. 

Afterwards, he took thoughtful consideration to get rid of any evidence he was there. They lived in the slums of Dublin, so he knew anyone around there wouldn’t talk anyhow. They were all drug addicts, criminals, or dysfunctional in some way. If anyone did find him, he would say that Daddy was abusive and running away from home was the only option, since no family wanted him. He would play the youth cards right. But he knew where he was going, he’d never see a police officer for a long time. 

And he was right. 

It was ruled a suicide and to his luck, the house burned down from the result of one of the neighbors too high to remember to turn off the stove. Safety first wasn’t an issue for them, especially not when shooting heroin, and so, three other houses, including his own, were extremely wrecked to piles of debris in ruins. So even if one wanted to, an investigation couldn’t be issued. Everything was much too destroyed. As for his school, he had caught the Ireland Rail, planning to enroll in a new one, with the  €10 of the €100 his father had stashed away in an old cigarette box, probably for some ugly hooker who didn’t need it. The piece of shit. His mother was hardly gone for six months. Then again, for his birthday he had been given a Marathon bar, then a black eye and a swollen lip. Of course, as encouraged by his mother, he had to use her makeup to hide it when he went to school the next day. What was love? It wasn’t Daddy kissing his son’s forehead and buying a cake, it was Daddy’s fist kissing his face so much he was forced to grovel at his knees and thank him every time he was hit for being born — even when Jim wished he were dead.

Love was painful.

But it was your mind that shaped life, not circumstance.

He refused to take refuge in victimhood.

After roughing it in a drug den, stealing food when he could from the corner store on that same street, and pick pocketing strangers, he eventually had enough to salvage a ticket to England. He knew Ireland wasn’t so bad, but a clean slate was needed in order for a better life. 

To London it was.

He wandered the streets, the innocent and lost little boy. It was finally time when a well off, elderly couple in their early eighties took pity on him, and invited him into their home. He was living there for a short while and was even enrolled in a school in an all boys school. It was wretched and though he was very bright and ahead of his classmates, he was still seen as an outcast, often bullied like the classmates of his last school. He learned to fight back, he always did. Just like Carl Powers. No one expected him slipping the botulinum into Carl’s eczema medicine. He just simply drowned. Bad things just came to those who did him wrong, was all. He refused to hear him laugh at his face and mock his accent and his knowledge. It relieved him. He didn’t care to wonder why. He just wanted instant gratification. 

His caretakers wound up dying in a bit of an accident. Just a mix up of their tablets. That happens, right? He was 13 and so, to avoid being placed in another home, he ended up setting up a system to fool authorities, as if he were being taken care of by an adult. It was worked out in his favor, luckily, and he lived alone. It was nice to not be told what to do, what to believe in, how to feel. He didn’t want to be grateful. It was folly to be grateful. He deserved every bit of money he inherited from them. 

And why would he shed a tear for them? They were boring and he had no real connection with them. He did not feel guilt for his lack of empathy and continued to live on his own for a long time. He fell into drugs, alcohol, and hung around the wrong crowds of people. He was troubled. 

Depressed. 

Anxious. 

Angry. 

Happy.

**Manic.**

His symptoms only gradually became worse with his addiction. But on his good days, which were rare, he splurged money on albums, singing to no one in his bedroom. Life was good, it called to be jovial and blissful. This feeling lasted for months. Then he crashed. Then rose. Then crashed. It was a sloppy pattern, and eventually, he hit a roadblock after ending up in the hospital for overdosing. He was sentenced to juvenile rehab until he could build up his strength and unlearn bad habits. He was 16. 

At 17, he had transferred to another school, this another clean slate. Of course, rumors transferred with his name, and he was still terribly bullied. 

A light had come one night, where it dawned upon Jim, who knew the world a million trips around it, what he wished to do in his life; have the time of his life.

It was the Winter Dance of 1993. He just finished a fizzy drink. After his time in rehab, he had grown less accustomed to having many sweet things. But soda was nice once in a blue moon. It was one of his better nights, thankfully. 

“You’re James, aren’t you?”

Jim looked up from his empty cup, seeing a boy his age approach him. He was scrawny, but very cute. Jim never was fond of women. As he got older, his baby fat redistributed and his face became more chiseled, and he looked to be on the cusp of manhood. He, in fact, was quite handsome, but many people mocked him because of what they knew about his troubles socially with other people and actually feared how clever and bright he was. Many were indeed envious. But this boy seemed different. He was shy, tugging at the bottom of his tacky jumper. He wore glasses much too large for his face, with dirty blonde hair, and pale skin. 

“What’s it to you?”

Jim’s harsh question caught the boy off guard and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“A-are you with anyone t-tonight?”

A smile curled onto the Irishboy's lips. Now he understood. The boy was asking him to dance. It was very strange to him, because boys there usually screamed ‘faggot’ at him and rumored around the school that he had AIDS. After all, there had been great controversy in recent years as the epidemic only added to the mistreatment of the growing LGBT community. It didn’t mean it hadn’t pissed him off. Fortunately for the boy, Jim was also very much gay, proud, and wanted to have a good time.

“Hm. Aren’t you ashamed to be talking to the boy with the funny accent? Rumored a faggot? Why would you care who I’m with tonight?” scoffed Jim, tossing his empty cup into a nearby trash bin. 

Those gentle blue eyes blinked away bashfully to his feet. “Because, none of those things are true. I would know so. I’ve always liked you, just never had the guts to tell you.”

Jim only laughed at this, his dark, chilling eyes filled with mirth. He had never heard such a sentence before, it was very foreign to his ears. No, surely not, he must have heard wrong. The boy was a fool, he didn’t know Jim, where he came from, what he’d done. He deserved to be dead or in a cell somewhere. Yet, instead, he stood here being longed after a clueless classmate he paid no mind to before. Well, until now. But, once again, it meant nothing to him. He knew the boy would cry wolf the moment Jim bore his fangs. 

_ Ooh _

_ You can dance _

_ You can jive _

_ Having the time of your life _

_ Ooh, see that girl _

_ Watch that scene _

_ Digging the dancing queen _

  
  


“You don’t know me, love.” snapped Jim.

This only made the boy squeeze at the hem of his shirt. He couldn’t contain himself.

“But I want to!” 

Jim’s eyes widened. This boy was persistent, no? Jim didn’t quite understand it, and honestly found it annoying. He would’ve become angry, but reminded himself this was  _ his  _ night. He was making the best of it. After a moment of letting his eyes wander him in distrust, he only let out a jovial, manic laugh and grabbed him by the hand. It was soft, fitting in his own. He was  _ almost  _ comforted by it. He wasn’t accustomed to affection like most people were. 

“What’s your name, honey? Boys like you shouldn’t be hanging ‘round boys like me.” grinned Jim flirtatiously, observing in amusement as other students became sparse across the dancefloor of the gymnasium, in disgust and awe seeing two boys hand in hand as they began to dance together. But Jim didn’t care. 

_ Friday night and the lights are low _

_ Looking out for a place to go _

_ Where they play the right music _

_ Getting in the swing _

_ You come to look for a king _

_ Anybody could be that guy _

The boy wasn’t used to the attention, but fought to be brave as he danced with Jim in front of everyone, knowing that he would suffer the social consequences later. All he cared about was now. Tonight. 

“Spencer— I’m in your maths class, Mr. Rossetti? I sit behind you.” He informed, smiling sweetly. “You’re very smart.”

“Jealous?”

Jim spun him around, his hand at Spencer’s waist. It made a surge of joy bolt through him. He moved closer to Jim, their steps, perhaps not the most graceful, but in sync. 

“Not at all, I admire you. Would you teach me sometime?”

Another twirl.

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re very bright, I can tell already you don’t need my help. You’ve won many awards growing up, top of your class.”

“How did you know that?”

“Just do.”

_ Night is young and the music's high _

_ With a bit of rock music _

_ Everything is fine _

_ You're in the mood for a dance _

_ And when you get the chance _

A charmed giggle escaped Spencer as they parted from each other, though still danced close together. He found Jim pretty groovy at dancing, and felt out of place with his own moves. His full, pink lips stretched into a bigger smile as he tried to mimic Jim’s moves.

“You’re a mystery, James.”

“Then try to solve me.”

“Think that’s a bit hard, isn’t it?”

“No. I know people’s stories long before they tell them.”

“Like a storyteller?”

“Like a storyteller.”

Jim smirked, now grinding his hips against a willing Spencer, who slipped his arms around his neck, almost as if under a spell. The world around them faded to nothing, as they created their own world in the movements of their bodies, and words they shared ever so charismatically. 

_ You are the dancing queen _

_ Young and sweet _

_ Only seventeen _

_ Dancing queen _

_ Feel the beat from the tambourine, oh yeah _

“Alright, prove it.” teased Spencer, their hips swinging and wiggling to the beat, their steps still together.

Jim gestured over to one of the girls in the crowds, who had a fizzy drink in her hand as she flirted with one of boys on the rugby team of their school, with a nod.

“That’s Grace Thompson.”

“Sure is.”

“What’s she like?”

“She’s bulimic. Starved herself nearly dead to look good in that dress.” He deduced. “She’s self harmed ever since her father left her as a child and her mother is a drunk, who compares her to other women and girls. With all the cruel things said to her, she outlets it through sleeping around. She can’t get pregnant because of her disease.”

Spencer looked to him with wide eyes of amazement. 

“You’re joking. You can’t know all that about her.”

“I know a lot more, that’s just a taste of what her personal life is like.” 

“What about him?”

Spencer gestured his head as a nod toward the rugby player flirting with Grace.

_ You can dance _

_ You can jive _

_ Having the time of your life _

_ Ooh, see that girl _

_ Watch that scene _

_ Digging the dancing queen _

“Victor Davenport. He’s an overachiever. He’s just doing what his father wants, but he secretly enjoys baking. He’s too scared to tell his father because he would be ridiculed, since guys don’t usually do that stuff. It’s frowned upon.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

“Just the way it is, unfortunately.” frowned Jim, shrugging as he spun him around again.

“What else do you know?”

“His Mum died in childbirth having him, but he’s lived a fairly good life. He’s a closeted bisexual and owns all of Madonna’s albums.”

Spencer snorted, once more slipping his arms around Jim, who took a great delight in his scent. Body wash and men’s deodorant. And those pretty, full lips that stretched into an adorable smile over white teeth lined with braces— he couldn’t help but be attracted. No, he never felt love before, and he didn’t feel love now; but what if this was the closest he could get to it?

“What can you tell about me?” 

“You’re the child of two conservative parents,” he began for a moment, his hips gyrating to the rhythm of the music, “you’re studious, unfit, diabetic, allergic to bees, and you like yourself a nice cuppa hot chocolate after every meal. Your parents are pushy, but you feel they know best, since they want you to have a good job one day.”

Spencer, once more, was in deep awe. 

“I’m allergic to bees?”

_ You're a teaser, you turn 'em on _

_ Leave 'em burning and then you're gone _

_ Looking out for another _

_ Anyone will do _

_ You're in the mood for a dance _

_ And when you get the chance _

Jim howled with laughter, and Spencer couldn’t help but laugh as well, their hearty mirth intermingling with the scent of his deodorant and Jim’s cheap men’s cologne. They were perspirising, and Jim could tell, from how the heat of their bodies radiated off each other as they danced so closely, their energy infectious. And Jim could also notice Spencer, perhaps unaware, wanted Jim as much as Jim wanted Spencer.

“Wanna have a cigarette and drink?” offered Jim afterwards, cupping the other boy’s bottom playfully. 

Spencer bit his lip, and all the man could do was turn different shades of red; Jim somehow was intrigued by this reaction, and decided to boldly milk it further. He leaned close into his ear, brushing his hand up and down his back.

“Or, perhaps a shag?”

_ You are the dancing queen _

_ Young and sweet _

_ Only seventeen _

_ Dancing queen _

_ Feel the beat from the tambourine, oh yeah _

An excited shiver passed through Spencer. It took him a few moments of decision making, before finally making his choice with a nod. He slipped his hand in Jim’s, not even listening to all the nasty comments from some of their classmates and even a few faculty as well. It was the 90s, they needed to get with the times. Boys liked boys, girls liked girls, some liked both, and it wasn’t anything new. 

_ You can dance _

_ You can jive _

_ Having the time of your life _

_ Ooh, see that girl _

_ Watch that scene _

_ Digging the dancing queen _

_ Digging the dancing queen _

Jim led him into the parking lot, where Spencer gestured toward his car. Once inside in the back seats, he locked the door behind them. It was a bit awkward, but somehow it worked them both to arousal. Their teenage hormones didn’t fail them and Jim was glad for it, because he’d never been so turned on before. It was heated kisses, where teeth clinked and tongues clashed, their shaky, nervous hands were tugging off shirts, clumsily dragging down trousers. It was messy, hot, but felt wonderful when their skin met. 

This was like a new addiction to Jim. He hoped he could do this more often, as this was better than any drug or alcoholic beverage. Not even cigarettes could compare. There was little risk in something that felt so divine. They touched and kissed each other up, winding one another like a jack in the box. Spencer propped himself upon Jim’s lap at a point, right on top of Jim’s own stirred up excitement. He knew it was time now. The Irishboy swallowed thickly, letting his eyes wander over the other boy’s hickey adorned neck. 

“You’re ready? I’m not forcing you to go through with all of it, you know.”

“But I want you, James.” pouted the Englishboy. 

“We don’t even have a condom.” sighed Jim, looking around.

“Well, you aren’t getting me pregnant.”

“Don’t be stupid, Spencer. Never let anyone have sex with you unprotected. What people are saying now, is true. We can’t have proper sex without a condom.”

Spencer was definitely a virgin, based on his ignorance around sex. Jim also was a virgin, but having watched certain dirty movies and knowing the current pandemic around AIDS, he had an idea what sex was like and was cautious. He didn’t want to be just another statistic.

“Well… I think I have one in the cupholder. I forgot to toss it… it was given out to us during class in sex ed. I think it’s lubed.”

As Jim reached over to the front to grab the condom, there was a playful smack on Jim’s backside. The Irish teen brought the condom back with a grin. 

“Be still, you naughty minx.” 

It wasn’t very long Jim was inside of Spencer. It was a bit painful for the blonde, but Spencer eventually took a liking to it, for moans permeated the car, and both teenage boys were quickly growing used to it. They enjoyed themselves, and lasted about another fifteen minutes before they were done.

The condom was discarded and both of them dressed soon afterwards. Jim wanted another round just as much as Spencer did, but knew it was impossible with the lack of safety precaution. At this point, Jim was now just kissing his neck lazily as they listened to the music just beyond the school’s gymnasium doors. 

“I’d like to do that again sometime.”

“Then let’s both look for more condoms. I’ll be on my best behavior too.” 

“Mm, sure.”

It was silent for about ten minutes until Spencer broke the silence, as his curiosity couldn’t leave him.

“James?”

“What is it?”

“Who are you, exactly?”

Jim frowned, not really wanting to respond to it, though knowing he had to.

“You said I was a mystery, so solve me.”

Spencer sighed, placing his glasses on again as he tried to read a very apathetic Jim. His eyes adjusted finally and he tried to read Jim the way the Irish teen read others. He wondered what his super power was, if superpowers existed at all. He was sure that he wouldn't be shocked if Jim outright said he was some kind of supernatural being that had the supreme knowledge of the world. But that was folly. Jim deduced, right? Perhaps, he would try his hand at that.

“Closed off,” began Spencer, studying him closely, “you seem cynical. You're easily bored or annoyed by someone. You act tough, but only ‘cause you’re afraid of getting hurt.”

Jim froze for a moment. The Irishboy couldn’t help but feel as if he were being stripped of what protected him, like the truth was flowing out the armor of thick skin he’s grown all these years. It was irritating. It was scary. Something of panic grew inside of him.

“Shut up. You don’t know me.”

Spencer only swallowed at his response, his eyes sad.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Jim dug into his pocket and grabbed his box of cigarettes, pulling them out. 

“Want one?”

“Don’t smoke.”

“Hm.”

Jim unlocked the car door and stepped out, placing a cigarette to his lips. Just right when he was ready to light it, he tapped all around his trousers, irritable that his lighter was missing. Just right when he was ready to turn around to ask Spencer to see if his lighter fell somewhere in the car, he was met with a small group of other Year 11 rugby boys, three of them in fact. They stared at him as if he had committed the worst crime known to man, and of course, that made Jim quirk a brow curiously, as he wanted to smoke in peace. He searched again, though this time in his jacket pocket, and with great triumph and agitation, pulled it out to light his cigarette.

“The fuck do you all want?”

“Better watch your mouth, faggot. We don’t want AIDS plaguing the school.”

Jim sighed angrily, smoke escaping his lips as he exhaled. His cigarette was in his left hand, burning pungently. He wanted to have a good night, just once without a single complication, though he supposed this was just his life at this point.

“Then don’t fuck your whore mother.”

It was Michael O’ Connor who threw the first punch. But Jim refused to be spit at and spoken to disrespectfully by a bunch of moronic Year 11 rugby boys, who didn’t know the difference of their mouth and arse. It was very much so clear that shit spewed from both.

It was when Jim was slammed into the car, he screamed for Spencer to drive off or go inside. But it was too late. Michael had whipped out a pocket knife and stabbed Spencer, who was caught in the middle of their fight trying to protect Jim. Jim was extremely taken aback by the deed, his eyes wide as he watched Spencer collapse to the ground.

“He wasn’t involved, it was me you wanted.”

“He was in the way,  _ Jimmy _ . I think you know what happens when people get in the way of your fun.” retorted Michael.

“I’m well aware.” Jim narrowed his eyes. He loathed being called that.

So why not jive? Why not dance? This was a game,  _ his  _ game, and he wasn’t going to lose to the likes of them. Jim was tag teamed by the boys and punched to the ground with a now bloody nose, his stomach aching from being kicked repeatedly, struggling to get up as he observed those same boys scatter into Spencer's car. 

“Find the keys?”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Jim acted quickly. He grabbed another cigarette from the box and lit it, tossing the flaming stick of tobacco inside of the car before the door could shut. He heard unaware, arrogant laughter and in the next moment, all three boys were driving away. 

But they didn’t get far— not when the car was immediately engulfed in flames. They crashed into the nearest tree; the fire grew faster than Jim expected. 

They got what they deserved. They all did. For getting in the way of his fun. But now it was okay. Because, for a moment, Jim felt at ease, hearing the screams of those who meddled in his affairs. It was comforting to know that he didn’t let bastard, snobby brats leave without the final blow. He got the final word in, the final say, of how his game would start and end. And no fool had the caliber to make it otherwise. What did Jim have to be grateful for, again? Perhaps he’d find his happy place once more, but that was only when he did away with the nuisances.

Those deep rooted desires bled into reality when the consulting criminal of 43 walked through the halls of his estate. He had been in the business for— how long was it now? 17 felt like ages ago. Now he traveled when and where he pleased, had people working for him to the bone, protected him with their worthless lives. People were only important when they were useful. And that’s what he proved himself to be. His services were useful, and therefore, so was he. But who would have thought, in the beginnings of his dark fate, rotten roots could blossom? This was not a tragedy, but a true success. Of trial and error— til he knew how to make every situation a win in his control.

If this wasn’t supposed to happen, then of course, why was he born?

(MUSIC BY ABBBA - DANCING QUEEN)


End file.
